The Fate
By: Stephanie Erickson
The Fate is in your hands, dear reader.
1.
The thread of life is a delicate thing. It is so easily broken. The Spinner must choose carefully when he plucks his materials from the dust, literally creating life from nothing. — Liv, Section 4, Paragraph 1: On Spinners
I stare into the darkness, searching for just the right bit of light. My orders come from higher up, so I already know who this man needs to be—calm, assertive, stern exterior with a soft interior. He’ll make a good military man. All I have to do is get him started. The girls will help shape his life, and then we’ll turn him loose on the world.
Finally, I see what I need. When I reach into the black cauldron, the silver mass clings to my hand as if I’ve just dipped it in cotton candy. I take it from the stone hearth over to the wheel, hook it onto the machine with the skill that comes from centuries of practice, and sit down to spin the man’s life. When I’m finished, I pull the thread off the machine, a delicate silver line of light, and hand it to Horatia.
She smiles, carefully taking the thread from me and over to her desk. Desk is a loose term. It’s more of a workbench really. Four wooden posts and a thick slab of wood make it look like an oversized cutting board. Our workspace is probably the most primitive in heaven, but it suits us. We’re simple souls.
Horatia’s straight, black hair tumbles down around her shoulders as she tips her head to the right, watching the light play against the thread, trying to decide how long it will take the man to fulfill his fate. I watch her, wondering how she always knows just where to cut.
“Don’t sneeze,” I call out, shattering our silent workspace. Galenia dissolves into laughter, but Horatia gives me a hot look that would melt steel.
Sheepishly, I smile and shrug, and Galenia composes herself in an admirable way.
Horatia goes back to the task at hand, and before long, her smile reappears as she brings her shears up and makes a clean slice in the thread, giving the man a nice, long life. I like the long ones. She hands the perfectly cut thread to the last of us, Galenia. She has the hardest job of all three of us.
Galenia’s spot really does look like a desk. Whereas my other sister likes to stand as she works, Galenia prefers to sit, so her work surface is a bit shorter… A single candle sits in an ancient-looking brass candleholder with a looped handle just to her right, so she can easily reach it. To her left, she has a myriad of tools for fraying, cutting, burning, and otherwise damaging the ends of the carefully woven threads.
Galenia’s brown hair falls in waves, and she tucks some of it behind her ears as she studies the man from her old, brown leather chair. She already knows what type of man he will be, what his life has in store for him, and how long he will live. Her job is to determine how he will die. She is a remarkably sweet woman, despite the fact that she constantly comes up with creative new ways for humans to die—from diseases to accidents. Needless to say, she’s good at her job. But this man doesn’t need a lot of fanfare. He will get to die old, surrounded by his family, in his bed. She holds the end of his thread over a candle, searing it so it won’t fray, and that is that.
Another life complete.
I breathe a sigh of relief. We create so many different people that the normal ones are always a bit of a respite.
Webber’s job is next, and he waits just outside our door to complete it. Galenia hands the delicate thread to him, and the three of us watch as he carries it to the tapestry. He effortlessly weaves the new life into the fabric, until we can’t tell where one stops and another begins.
He stands back, admiring his work, and we Fates do the same. The colors seem random up close, but as we step back, the larger picture becomes more and more apparent. The chaos turns to something beautiful. A never-ending garden landscape spread before us, growing more expansive with each life added.
“Life on Earth really is a beautiful thing,” I say, putting my arms around my two sisters.
“The order comes down for a black thread. And not just any black thread, this one is meant to be the next Hitler. So black is his soul that the people on Earth will not even be able to see past his darkness. You are the Timekeeper. How long do you let him live?” Horatia asks from her seat between Galenia and me on the stark white couch in the common area.
There are lots of ways for heavenly workers to unwind here, but we prefer games. Someone plays a soft melody on the piano in the corner, while a few Keepers read on the other side of the room. Still others are mingling around, talking softly about the day’s work.
Immediately, I know how I would answer. I’d snip that man’s life so short that he’d never survive past infancy. His parents’ pain would be a small sacrifice for protecting the rest of the world. It isn’t my turn, though. We often play this game after hours—even the Fates need a break, after all—but Reapers usually never have the downtime to join us. Still, here Michaela sits, reclining rather calmly in an armchair on the other side of the coffee table, and we all hold our breath as we await her response.
She is a vision of a woman, and a typical angel. Long, blonde hair, beautiful blue eyes, and a sparkling smile to match. She has the ability to set a soul at ease with a simple glance. As a Reaper, she has a different understanding of humanity than we Fates do, which makes her an unpredictable addition to our game. Our decisions are made in the comfort of our workroom, but Michaela understands the consequences of those decisions in a very real way. She’s walked the Earth; she knows what it’s like to take a child from a parent’s arms. She also knows what it’s like to usher a soul through the gates of hell.
I hold my breath as I wait for her answer. She narrows her eyes, chewing her bottom lip as she considers. “That sounds like a rock and a hard-place scenario if I’ve ever heard one.” Even her voice is angelic, as if the heavens are singing when she speaks.
Webber snorts. “What’s the big deal? Black threads are the most fun.” He examines his fingernails as he sits with one leg crossed over the other in his own armchair to Michaela’s left.
I bristle as Webber reminds me of one of the many reasons I just don’t care for him.
Before I can respond, Michaela turns her head and looks at Webber curiously, without a shred of judgment in her eyes. “Why?”
“Because they add contrast to the tapestry. All light colors would make it dull. The dark brings balance.”
“So you don’t think the world could ever be perfect? At peace?” she asks.
“The world is perfect,” Webber answers simply.
Michaela smiles at his answer. I know light can only exist if there’s darkness; otherwise, it would be impossible for us to discern either one of them. Still, I don’t like Webber’s know-it-all response. And I think there’s more darkness in the world than there needs to be for humans to see the light. I’d like to think they’re smarter than that.
Webber grins slyly at me, as if gloating about his victory. Wishing my deep blue eyes could turn him to ice, I stare at him and rub my constant five o’clock shadow of a beard.
“Fine then, Webber,” I say. “You think you’ve won the round. You ask the next question.”
But Galenia, ever the peacemaker, speaks up, her soft voice cutting through the building tension. “You know that’s not how the game works, Penn. It’s Michaela’s turn.”
However, Michaela stares off into the distance with a blank expression on her face, and we all sigh at once, knowing the excitement of the game is over. She’s getting another assignment.
“I’m sorry, guys. I have to go. Duty calls.”
“Some day, you’ll have to finish a round with us, Michaela,” I say.
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“I look forward to it,” she says, smiling at me over her shoulder as she walks away, her black-and-white gown flowing behind her.
“I love it when she plays with us,” Horatia says with a sigh.
“It certainly brings another perspective into the game,” Galenia adds.
“It’s not much of a game with just the Fates. I’ll go see if I can find someone else to play with us,” Webber says as he stands up.
“Nah, that’s all right. If it’s all the same to you, I’m done for now,” I say, uninterested in spending any more time with Webber.
“Past your bedtime?” Webber asks.
“I’ve had my allotment of time with you, if that’s what you mean,” I say. I know it’s rude, but I can’t help it. He just rubs me the wrong way. Always has.
“Penn,” Galenia scolds, and I can’t help but shrink away from her, feeling like I just got my ears boxed.
“No, that’s all right. He’s just cranky because he knows I’d be better at his job than he is.” A hush falls over the group. Webber is always jockeying for my job, just waiting for me to make a mistake. It feels like a constant battle.
Originally created by God to maintain Earth’s birthrate, the first three Fates, and the many that followed, were all women. I’m the first male Fate. Ever. I didn’t even start out as a Weaver like some Fates do to get their feet in the door. I was groomed all along to be a Spinner, as if God had hoped to purposely shake things up a bit by adding me to the mix. But others didn’t see it that way. I was an outsider, a threat. Because of that perception, I’ve needed to prove myself over and over again.
Though no one outright says it, men are thought to be ill-equipped for our line of work, which requires compassion and motherly instincts—qualities more commonly attributed to women. But, much to Webber’s chagrin, I’m awesome at my job. Many centuries have passed on Earth during my tenure. Webber’s been waiting for almost as long to take it from me, but there are only three Fates at any one time, so he will just have to keep waiting.
I stand, stretch, and scratch my head, rumpling my already-messy mop of blond curls. “I guess we’ll never find out, will we?”
“Never say never,” Webber says to my back as I walk away. I try to let it just roll off, like water off a duck, but I fail… again. Just who does Webber think he is?
Here I am, one of the best Spinners in the history of the Fates, with no plans of leaving my post, but Webber keeps going at me. He can’t get it through his thick head that I’m around to stay. Fates don’t have a forced retirement age. We stay as long as we are useful, and not a moment more.
Horatia catches up to me just as I’m rounding the corner to my quarters. “Hey, don’t let him bother you. He’s just a Weaver.”
“I don’t hate him because he’s a Weaver, Horatia. I hate him because he’s always trying to edge me out of my job.” I sigh. “He’s actually a pretty good Weaver. He’d probably be a good Spinner, though don’t tell him I said so.”
“How did you start out again?” Horatia asks as we continue on down the dark hall. The walls are painted black, and the sky shines through the ceiling, displaying the glowing, shimmering galaxies that make up the heavens. The floor is dimly lit to prevent us from tripping, but we don’t really need that feature. We’ve made the journey enough times to do it with our eyes closed.
“I got lucky. The sister whose place I took was ready to go. Fia, that was her name.” The memory of her tickles the back of my mind. “I started spending time here before I was old enough to officially start working. I just couldn’t keep myself away. My fingers itched to spin. Fia said I had a rare gift, so she never kicked me out. I think the other two hoped she would. I heard one of them say the creation process wasn’t a spectator sport. Fia would just hush the naysayers with a wave of her arm. She’s the one who taught me how to spin.” I chuckle. “This one time, she told me sometimes you need a son of a bitch to spice things up a little. At the time, it shocked me, but now I know exactly what she means.”
“So is Webber adding some spice to your life?” Horatia asks as we arrive at my quarters.
“I suppose so.” I mean for it to come out lighthearted, but I say it through my teeth, making it sound like I begrudge the comment. Maybe I do.
“Whatever happened to Fia?”
“You know, I’m not sure. Once I took her post, she stopped by once or twice to see how I was doing. But I didn’t see her again after that. She never talked about what she was planning to do.” I shift my weight as Horatia leans against my doorway. I don’t like not knowing what happened to my mentor. I’ve just been so busy and committed to the job that it never occurred to me to wonder. She helped me get my start. Because of her, I didn’t have to fumble through my first few weeks on the job. I already knew what I was doing. How could I not know what happened to her? Why hadn’t I tried harder to stay in touch?
“What happened to the one you replaced?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I never even met her actually. You would’ve known her better than I did.” Horatia’s black hair bounces as she shrugs her shoulders.
I think back. Fia’s sisters hadn’t accepted me before I became a Fate. So once I was one of them, they isolated me further. I think it was mostly because I was male, but they never would’ve admitted that. So I kept to myself until Galenia came on board.
“In those early days, I stayed focused on my work, so I didn’t talk much to the other two. They left not long after Fia did, anyway. I mean, Galenia took up her post only a few decades after I started mine. You weren’t far behind.”
I can’t help but wonder what happened to them—what will happen to me once Webber finally succeeds in taking my place.
Horatia must notice the expression on my face, because she puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’re enjoying their retirement by now.”
I nod, hoping she’s right. Maybe I’ll go see a Keeper tomorrow, find out what happened to them. Keepers hold the answers to all the questions in the universe, although they don’t often share those answers. It might still be worth asking. Perhaps knowing that someone knows will be enough, even if I don’t get exact details.
“Good night, Penn. I’ll see you in the morning,” Horatia says, adjourning to her own quarters.
“Night, Ratia.” I walk to the end of my room and stare out at the heavens around me. A riot of stars, darkness, and light play against the canvas in front of me. After our conversation, I can’t help but wonder—what is the fate of the Fates?
2.
In the morning, I try to put my dark thoughts behind me. I stride to our workstation without allowing myself to be distracted by Webber, who leans against the wall of the weaving room, chewing a piece of straw.
I have purpose. I come, I spin life, and together, we populate the Earth. There isn’t anything beyond that. There doesn’t need to be.
“Ladies,” I say as I walk into our room.
They smile and nod at me from their stations, ready to work. I walk over to the far wall, next to the cauldron, and take the first order of the day. Each new order appears after a completed one has been placed on the spike. Each spiked order disappears while we’re making the new one. I’ve tried to catch the exact moment they disintegrate, but I’ve never been successful. I’m always too busy spinning.
This life will be an artist to balance the overly logical world. Creative, loving, and free spirited—that’s what the world needs. Their fate is up to you.
—G
“Why does He sign the orders ‘G’? Is He trying to be cool?” I ask as I approach the cauldron with the slip of paper. “Like, hey, G-money, what’s going on?”
Galenia giggles. “I don’t know. Maybe He doesn’t have time to write the last two letters?”
“Hasn’t He always done that?” Horatia asks.
“As long as I can remember,” I answer.
“So why question it now?”
I peer into the dark cauldron. “I seem
to be full of questions lately.”
It takes some time to find the right materials. I lose track of how long I stand there, staring into the pot, waiting for what I need. Some days, it comes easily, and we can do hundreds of thousands of lives, keeping up with the growing demand of the expanding population of Earth. As I stare into the darkness, I realize today is not going to be one of those days.
The girls know better than to push me. I have earned my reputation as one of the best Spinners in history for a reason. I know what I’m doing, and so they wait patiently—Horatia sharpening her blades, and Galenia staring off into the distance, clearly daydreaming. She does this so frequently that someone who didn’t know better would think she’s spacey. I often wonder what she daydreams about. Even though she’s the one who decides how the lives we create will end, I know she’s too sweet to be dreaming of death.
I smile to myself as I watch her vacant expression. When I look back into the cauldron, the life is there. I reach in and pull out everything I need to create her, a pink mass of glittering wonder. As I turn her over in my hands, she shines iridescently against the low light of our room. Even Horatia gasps at the sight of her.
I carefully attach her to the wheel and begin my work. An actor, that’s what she will be. And a singer, with the most beautiful voice the world has ever heard. This strand I’m creating speaks to my heart in a way I’ve never experienced. She will work on Broadway. She will make it big. Her life will be perfect in every way possible.
To my disbelief, I start to see her in my mind’s eye. Normally, I never get a detailed picture of the people I create—I only know the basics of who they are and what they are meant to do. Their appearance is irrelevant. But this one shows herself to me. Her green, almond-shaped eyes look at me as if they truly see me. Her brown hair with natural blonde highlights will make her stand out among any crowd, as will her full, pouty lips—ones that I could kiss forever.
The Children of Wisdom Trilogy Page 1
